


Bordeaux

by Aja



Category: White Collar
Genre: Intimacy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, discussion of object insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted to the White Collar kink meme, for the prompt, Peter/Neal: "I own you for 4 years. You okay with that?" "Yeah."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bordeaux

**Author's Note:**

> So I actually created the first white collar kink meme on LJ back in 2009 and modded it for a while before handing it over to other mods. But apparently I wrote this fill at some point?!

Peter's got him spread-eagled over his own bed.  
  
Neal isn't afraid, not exactly. But Peter gets so intense and sometimes, like now, Neal has no idea what he'll do next. It's crazy how that almost makes him feel... safe, in a way. Peter always just _knows_ Neal. Better even than Kate. Still, it's ...unpredictable. Neal doesn't wind up thrown off his guard a lot. And certainly not like _this_ : legs splayed, arms spread wide, one wrist clutching each bedpost.  
  
And Peter's hand trailing slowly up and down his thigh until every stroke coaxes an audible shiver out of Neal.  
  
"You think I don't know you wanted me to find you?" Peter murmurs, pressing a kiss to the curve of Neal's ass. "You think I don't know you waited for me there at that dingy apartment?"  
  
Neal closes his eyes. He'd gone there for Kate, he thinks. He had. But Peter's hands are moving over him like they own him, like he's just some sort of fucking property, and that feels like Kate's _never_ felt, firm and secure and steady. Neal's harder and harder with every new touch.  
  
"You think I don't know you wanted me to _take_ you?" Peter whispers. His hand lingers around the base of Neal's spine before finally pulling away, and Neal can't breathe. "To _possess_ you?" and this time it's not his hand Neal feels pressed hard against his skin: it's cold, smooth glass.  
  
"What is that?" he gasps.  
  
"I think you know," Peter murmurs, voice dipping into that soft chuckle he gets sometimes, like he's trying to keep a straight face around Neal but can't quite manage it.  
  
And Neal does. There's a part of him that's known what this was about since the moment Peter showed up tonight. He's so hard he's shuddering, trying his best not to rut up against the bed. "You're not going to—to put that where I think you are, are you?" he says, but he can already feel the bottle stroking along his back, cool and dangerous and weighted with a thousand things he hadn't said to Kate.  
  
"What if I am?" Peter asks. "I can do whatever I want with you, Neal. You know that?"  
  
Peter turns Neal's head to face him. His expression is calm, but his eyes are on fire and his forehead is creased with tension. Neal leans into him without thinking. They'd done this once, four years ago, not long after Peter had almost caught him the first time. Neal showed up one night, just to see if he could track Peter the way he'd been tracking Neal. Instead of getting pissed or scared or intimidated like anyone else normal would have done, Peter slammed Neal against the wall. To this day Neal doesn't know whose mouth met whose first, but he's never forgotten how hungry Peter was. Or how good the ache felt for days afterward, all through his system, like a hard-won fight or a bank he shouldn't have been able to break.  
  
"I missed your mouth," he hears himself say. Only it's not him at all; his voice is deep, desperate, and Neal is never desperate. He'd never have said anything like that to Kate. He likes what it does to Peter, though, the way it makes his eyes darken, makes his brow furrow til he's almost frowning. They haven't kissed tonight. Not yet. Peter's going to make him wait for it.  
  
Neal's okay with that.  
  
Peter drags the bottle of Bordeaux up Neal's spine and over his cheek. "You didn't answer my question," he says. Neal keeps looking at him, and he drags the bottle up against Neal's neck, then slides it over his jawline. When he places it against Neal's lips Neal closes his mouth around it obediently. And it looks like it's Peter's turn to shudder.  
  
"Good boy," he murmurs, and _god_ , Neal's so hard his eyes are actually starting to water from the effort of holding himself in check. He focuses on the bottle, slightly musty from the two days it spent in that empty apartment. It doesn't smell like Kate. It doesn't smell much like fine wine. He can feel the mouth of it warming up beneath his lips. Peter's watching him as he rims it slowly with his tongue.  
  
It isn't helping Neal one bit.

"You know," Peter says, cupping Neal's cheek with his hand, "I'm thinking if you follow orders this well for the next four years, we'll get along fine." Neal starts to protest, but he hasn't let go of the Bordeaux and it comes out like a faint moan instead, reverberating into the empty bottle. He arches into the caress of Peter's hand, desperate for more, for anything - but instead of giving it to him, Peter tugs the bottle away from him and sets it aside. Neal swallows down another noise of protest and turns to slip his lips over the underside of Peter's wrist. Peter starts and he almost jerks away, but Neil won't let him. He needs something in his mouth _now_. After a moment Peter lets go, lets that accidental chuckle slip from him again, and moves in again, one hand trailing over Neal's chest.  
  
"Do you understand what it means?" he whispers. When he speaks, his lips brush Neal's forehead. "Four years." Neal nods. "You chose it." Neal nods again, desperate for anything. He tilts forward, lets his lips catch on the underside of Peter's jaw line. He's sweating. God, Neal's missed him. Missed this. Peter's breath hitches at the touch, but he leans back, just out of reach. "Tell me," he says. "Tell me what the next four years are going to be like."  
  
Neal's mouth is so dry he needs a moment before he can speak. He leans his head against Peter's forearm, whatever contact Peter will let him have, trying to bring his breathing back under control.  
  
"It means you touch me whenever you want," he says finally. "You tell me wherever you want me to go, whatever you want me to do." He looks up to see Peter watching him with something like grim approval. "Means you get my mouth whenever you want it," Neal says. God, Peter's never spooked easily, and Neal's never been so fucking grateful. "You get my cock whenever you want it." This time when he leans in Peter meets him, bare, hot skin against bare, hot skin, and they're all but shuddering together. "You get my brain and my time and my ass and my view of all Manhattan, _whenever you want_." Peter's eyes dip shut and Neal wonders if it'd be too much, too soon, to kiss him there, over his eyelids, like a lover. Instead he lingers against the corner of Peter's mouth, as close to begging as he'll ever let himself get.  
  
"You know what's better than all that?" Peter mutters, and he drops his arms to pull Neal into them, lets one hand drape over Neal's ass like it fucking belongs there. Neal makes a hungry sound and Peter's face falls, and finally, _finally_ Peter's mouth is on his, sure and solid and hot and firm.  
  
Neal drinks it up for as long as Peter will let him, kissing him like he's been waiting for this for three years, and maybe he has. He feels light, like Peter is pouring him out a kiss at a time, like cheap wine in a dressed-up bottle. When he finally answers, "That you _own_ me for the next four years?" he feels almost sated with the knowledge of it, even though they've barely even touched. He is owned. He belongs to Peter. He's safe. He _belongs to Peter_.  
  
"Not quite." Peter separates from him long enough to give him a look, like he knows everything that Neal's thinking.

"That I own _you_ for the next four years."  
  
And then he smiles, sheepish, and Neal feels warm all over; and he's kissing Peter again, pouring himself out, and reaching for the bottle of Bordeaux that doesn't mean goodbye at all.


End file.
